


The Sound of Silence

by Atombombbabyy



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Deacon Lies, Deacon has a crush, Deacon/Sole Survivor - Freeform, F/M, I'm so bad at tagging, Light Angst, One Shot, Post molecular level, Whisper knows, but only if you squint really, railroad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 20:50:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10474161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atombombbabyy/pseuds/Atombombbabyy
Summary: Just a one shot based on one line of dialogue that Deacon says about who shot off the first bomb.“Does it matter?” She finally said, the cigarette held delicately between her first and middle fingers, her hand resting on her knee. Her voice was gravelly, but soft. He tried to remember the last time he had heard it. It was difficult to say.“Well I mean I guess not in the grand scheme of things. Just one of those things you wonder, you know? Who shot first, why? Did they think it would end up like this, with the human population scrabbling to survive, fighting over the last scraps of Radroach meat?”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little diddy that I wrote in between chapters of my long-fic. I hope you enjoy it! I know it's been done before, the sole survivor explaining what happened in the vault to a companion they care about, blah blah, but I just had to write this one!

                He was beginning to realize why they called her Whisper.

 

                Well, he had always had a hunch why they called her that, with her moving like, _so fucking silently_ , through pretty much any terrain they encountered. Hell, she had gotten the drop on him more than once, and that was difficult to do.

                But now, as they sat outside Hangman’s Alley, the corpses of some discarded Raiders festering in the heat around them creating an ungodly smell, he realized that he could count on one hand the amount of times she had spoken more than 10 words together at a time. It was usually him that did the talking, and he guessed that the reason he hadn’t noticed her silence was because his mouth was going, like, _always_.

                She was constantly quiet. Had been since she stumbled into the Railroad HQ some months ago, covered in grime and ghoul guts from fighting through the church. She had just stared at Desdemona when she told her to turn around and go back from where she came from. He had thought this was an… unwise… tactical decision, seeing as how Glory had a minigun trained on her, so he had quickly stepped up and vouched for her, filling Des in on the wild hijinks the woman had gone through. Whisper (then only known as…the woman? The vault dweller?) had raised a finely arched brow at him, the only recognition she gave to his knowledge of her.

                He never told her that he had been watching her, even from before she emerged from the vault. He never told her all the times he followed her, taking on different disguises throughout the Commonwealth, watching her learn to fight from behind his rifle’s trusty scope, waiting to take out a target if he saw her getting overwhelmed. She never did, however.

                He never told her that the reason he knew so much about her was because, not only was he tasked with figuring her out after the Railroad heard that the Institute was watching someone in a vault nearby, but also because she fascinated him.

                He had a feeling he didn’t have to tell her. She probably already knew. That was Whisper, for you.

                She was good at that kind of thing. It made her a good Railroad agent. Deacon was good at lying. Whisper was good at knowing.

                It made them an unstoppable team.

                It didn’t matter what lies he told her, Whisper either believed them, or she didn’t. When he had given her his fake “recall code” she had opened it right there, read it, and handed it back to him. All without saying a word. Deacon didn’t know if he wanted to kiss her, or be her.

                He hated that he could never quite figure her out. He could always figure people out. He knew how they worked; he knew why they did what they did. It was what made him so good in the field, what made him a good agent.

                Deacon hated it, but he also loved it.

                It made her all the more interesting to him. He had been around in this fucked up world for too long, figuring he already knew it all, and all he was there to do any  more was make sure no more synths had to suffer for the Institute’s transgressions. Partnering with Whisper had shown him that he really didn’t know shit.

                And that excited him to no end.

                He reveled in trying to stump her. Trying to make her question him, trying to make her try to figure him out. But with every lie, he either got a cocked brow, a shrug, or just ignored. The recall code had been his best one yet. He should have known that his best would still not be good enough.

                She had gained the Railroad’s trust, all without uttering more than a paragraph to any of them. She did what they needed, and she did it well. So they helped her. Tinker Tom helped her decipher the Courser chip that she brought him (um, p.s.: She killed a fucking courser. By herself.). She traveled into the Glowing Sea (again, what the fuck?), and retrieved plans for an Institute Relay from an escaped Institute scientist. She then built the fucking thing in Hangman’s Alley, allowing him to tag along and help her in between checking up on safe houses and making synth drops.

                Say what you would about her, she got shit done.

                And then she had gone through. With a holotape to gather information from the computers and the clothes on her back, she relayed into the Institute.

                It had dawned on him (okay, not really, it was on his mind pretty much always) that he didn’t know _why_ Whisper wanted to get to the Institute so badly. She had just shown up and said she needed to get there, and they had helped her do it (after she had helped them, of course.) She was committed to helping the Railroad’s cause now, that much was clear, but he didn’t know the main reason why she wanted to go there so badly. Nothing he had ever unearthed about her had ever cleared that up. And she certainly wasn’t talking.

                That fact hadn’t changed when, not more than one day after disappearing in a bright spark of lightning, she showed back up. Her face was pale and tear streaked, but it was set with a look of determination he had never seen cross her face before. She had found him. She had taken his hand. She had led him out of Hangman’s Alley, avoiding the stares of the Railroad agents there, and had stopped here, in another shabby alley full of bloated corpses and the other detritus from the end of the world.

                Still silent, she had taken out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and sucked it down with alarming speed. The next one she took out and lit, this time taking smaller drags off it, savoring it more.

                And that brought them to now. Sitting in a shadowy alley, the sun beginning to cast the shadows of late afternoon on the husks of cars in the main road. She took a pull off the cigarette, and he could see her hands shaking. Whisper’s hands never shook.

                “One time, I got a face change and was a girl for a few months. Should’a seen the looks back at HQ.” He said, trying to dispel his nervousness about her demeanor. It was one of his half-jokes; half-truth, half lie, said to lighten a mood, or bring out a smile. Her eyes flicked to him, looked him up and down, and then refocused on the brick wall in front of them.

                _Alright, so something else then._

                “Y’know what I wanna know? I really wanna know how the Big One started. What idiot fired first? What the hell did they hope to gain?” He said, knowing it was a risk. Pretty much the only thing anyone knew about Whisper was that she was Pre-War. Their research on Vault 111 had shown it was a Cryogenic facility. It hadn’t taken a rocket scientist to fit the pieces together after that.

                Her eyes darted to him, dark and deep and brown, boring into his soul. She knew what he was trying to do, because of course she did. She knew him, or knew what mattered about him. He hated it, except that he didn’t.

                “Does it matter?” She finally said, the cigarette held delicately between her first and middle fingers, her hand resting on her knee. Her voice was gravelly, but soft. He tried to remember the last time he had heard it. It was difficult to say.

                “Well I mean I guess not in the grand scheme of things. Just one of those things you wonder, you know? Who shot first, why? Did they think it would end up like this, with the human population scrabbling to survive, fighting over the last scraps of Radroach meat?” He said, feeling the words leave his mouth before he could stop them. She was obviously upset at something. He was just gonna make it worse. He always made shit worse.

                “Y’know, Deacon. I don’t think they really gave a shit. Ego will do that to you.” She said, and he swallowed hard. She had never used his name, (not that it was his real name, but that didn’t really matter). It sounded perfect coming out in that low voice.

                “Well I’ve always been the kind of person that likes to know things. I don’t like puzzles I can’t solve.” He said, and he only sort of meant it about her. The double meaning didn’t escape her, though. Nothing escaped Whisper.

                They sat in silence for a while, watching the shadows grow longer. He only _sort of_ marveled at the way the light played in the dark strands of her hair, pulled up in a messy bun on the back of her head. He only _kind of_ noticed how it brought out the gold and red strands that usually stayed hidden in the dark glossy mass of waves. Her cigarette burned low, and she brought out the pack again, and then decided against it, putting it back in the pocket of the worn bag she carried.

                “The Institute took my son.” She said, and for the first time in his life, Deacon didn’t have a witty quip, he didn’t have anything to say, actually. It was the most she had given away about herself since they met. He wasn’t about to cheapen it with a joke.

                “They killed my husband and took my son. So I went to find him.” She said, and she was staring at the wall, and he still was only sort of awed at the graceful curve of her cheekbone, the pale, unmarkedness of her skin. He cleared his throat, and for the first time in his life, didn’t know what to say.

                “He was a baby when they took him. So small to have already witnessed the end of the world. I thought only 10 years had passed since when they took him and when I woke up. I thought if I found him, I could get him back, get back some semblance of the life I had before.” She said, and Deacon only half registered that this conversation was the most she had ever spoken to him at one time ever. The other half of him was taking in her words, trying to find something to say, trying to process her story and reconcile it with what he knew of the Institute.

                “Turns out, hadn’t been 10 years. It had been 60. My son is an old man, Deacon. Old enough to be my father.” She said, and he pretended not to notice the tear that escaped her eye, trailing silently (because she did everything silently, even crying), down her face.

                “And do you want to hear the best part?” She said, her voice cracking as she put the sarcasm into it. He thought to himself that maybe he didn’t want to hear the best part. But he still said nothing, not wanting to break the spell that they seemed to be under, not wanting her to stop talking.

                “He’s become the director of the Institute, Deacon. My son is the one down there building synths, using them like slaves, creating sentience and ignoring its cries for help.” She whispered.

                He felt like he was punched in the chest. Her words sunk into him, settling in his bones, unnerving him. He wasn’t used to being unnerved. This was bad. Very bad. Bad on so many levels. Why was she telling him? Was she going back? The man is her son, the man the synth’s he had rescued told him about. The man they all called Father.

                He suddenly had a vision. Auburn hair, matted with blood. The perpetual look of surprised horror that would forever be ingrained in his mind of the last time he had laid eyes on his wife. On his Barbara. The same day he had learned she was a synth. The same day she had learned she was a synth. And the same day the gang (the ones he had jokingly called the Deathclaws of University Point), had learned she was a synth.

                If what Whisper was saying was true, it was her son that had created Barbara.

                He didn’t know what to do with this information.

                Silence ruled once more. It blanketed the alley they sat in like radiation, ever present and pervasive, threatening to choke him. He didn’t like silence. It gave him too much time to think.

                “What are you going to do?” He asked, not knowing if it was the right thing to say, but needing to know. He needed to know if this was the last time he would hear her voice. If the next time he saw Whisper, she would be working for the Institute, trying to reclaim one of the synths she had helped rescue.

                When she didn’t answer, he got nervous. He thought about lying, about pulling out one of his old go-tos to try to lighten the mood again, but he knew that was the wrong thing to do now. He knew that she would see right through it, and that he might lose her.

                “I had a wife y’know.” He said, fumbling over the words because even as they left his lips he didn’t know if they were the right thing to say, but he _had to say something, didn’t he_?

                “She was a synth. Neither of us knew. The Railroad had given her new memories before we met.” He explained, seeing Whisper turn her head ever so slightly to listen. Her brow was straight, not cocked like when she knew he was lying. _He must have a tell,_ he thought. Because this was how Whisper looked at him when she knew he was telling the truth. All attention and understanding in her brown eyes. He met them and noticed only the _smallest amount_ how the light reflected specks of gold in the iris, turning them more honey colored than the deep rich mocha they usually were.

                “She was killed for being a synth.” He said, and for a moment he wondered if he was being manipulative, trying to sway her decision by giving Whisper his sob story. He dismissed this notion quickly. Whisper was not one to be swayed. She made her own decisions, and he had the suspicious feeling that she had already made her decision about this as well.

                “I’m sorry.” She said, her eyes going to his, meeting them behind his sunglasses before flitting back to the wall. He shrugged.

                “Well, life sucks and then you die.” He blurted before realizing what he was saying. _Now you’ve surely fucked it all up._ But to his surprise, she smiled. He could count on one hand the amount of times he had seen her smile, and none of them had ever been caused by him.

                They sat in silence again. Deacon wondered if he should say anything else, should explain more; about Barbara, about what happened. But he knew he had said enough. The proverbial ball was in her court, as they say.

                “I’m gonna blow them all up.” She said, and he only half heard it, because the other half of his attention was focused on the curve of her waist, the subtleness of her movements.

                “What?” He asked stupidly, and she looked at him fully again. He felt his heart speed up.

                “Your question, about what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna blow the Institute to hell.” She said, and he knew that even if she never spoke to him again, he would remember those words coming from her perfect, full lips (not that he was looking) for the rest of his life. He nodded, excitement and fear and hope bubbling up inside him like he hadn’t felt in so many years.

                “And I’ll be right behind you.” He said, and he knew she wouldn’t have to look at him to know that it wasn’t a lie. Hell, he didn’t really think he’d be able to lie to her again.

                “Good.” She said quietly, and, true to her name, silently placed her hand on his.

                He only _sort of_ thought about how soft and warm her fingers were.


End file.
